The Final Walkthrough

She had lived in this apartment for three years.

"Lived" wasn't quite the right word. Most of the time she just slept here. Out the door at seven-thirty in the morning, back at nine at night, scrolling through her phone on the couch on the occasional weekend. Three years, over a thousand days and nights. The moments that truly counted as "living" could be counted on one hand.

The landlord, Mr. Zhou, was in his early sixties, gray-haired but neatly combed. He arrived carrying a rag, and the first thing he did upon entering was wipe the dust off the shoe cabinet.

"Mr. Zhou, you don't have to—"

"Habit." He folded the rag and slipped it into his pocket. "Everything moved out?"

"All of it."

An empty room always looked bigger than its square footage. She used to think this one-bedroom was cramped, but standing in the middle of the living room now, it felt almost cavernous.

Mr. Zhou pulled a piece of paper from his pocket—his handwritten move-out checklist. She recognized it. He'd used the same sheet three years ago when she signed the lease. The paper was worn soft, the creases frayed at the edges.

"Kitchen sink." He turned the faucet on, then off. "Fine."

"Bathroom shower." He tested it. "Water pressure okay? Did you ever feel like—"

"It was fine. Always fine."

He nodded and ticked the box.

When they reached the bedroom, Mr. Zhou stopped at the windowsill. On it sat a potted pothos, its leaves yellowing at the tips but still alive.

"This plant..."

"Oh, the last tenant left it. It was already here when I moved in." She added quickly, "I didn't let it die."

Mr. Zhou said nothing. He just looked at the pothos for a moment.

Then he crouched down and pointed to a small dent in the hardwood floor. She followed his finger and felt her face flush.

"Dumbbell. I dropped a dumbbell. Sorry, I meant to fix it."

Mr. Zhou ran his hand over the dent the way you'd touch an old scar. "It's fine," he said. "No need."

She was surprised. Her coworkers had warned her—landlords during a move-out inspection come armed with magnifying glasses. Nail holes in the wall, scratches on the floor, grease stains on the range hood. Every imperfection gets deducted. She'd already mentally kissed her deposit goodbye.

But Mr. Zhou let everything slide.

He checked the last item on his list—the balcony drying rack, still intact—folded the paper, and put it back in his pocket.

"I'll transfer your deposit on WeChat."

She hesitated. "The kitchen wall—I hung a painting, left two holes—"

"I saw."

"And the bathroom mirror, there's a crack—"

"Saw that too."

"Then..."

Mr. Zhou stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, like he was about to say something, or maybe just taking in the room one last time before it became someone else's.

"I've been renting this place out for twenty-eight years," he said.

She didn't know what to say.

"Longest tenant stayed five years. Shortest, three months." Mr. Zhou smiled—not really at her, more at a memory. "There was this young guy, worked in the office tower across the street. Pulled all-nighters every day. Said he rented from me because it was a five-minute walk. Lived here two years, I barely saw him. Only when he moved out did he tell me he was a game artist, working overtime because his project was about to launch. Later, his game actually came out. I saw it in the app store."

Listening, she realized something—she'd lived here three years and never once told Mr. Zhou what she did for a living.

"Another girl," Mr. Zhou went on, "about your age. Stayed four years. When she left, she cleaned the kitchen better than I ever check for—even took apart the range hood filter and washed it. Later she got married. Sent me an invitation. I went to the wedding."

His tone was flat, like he was reading from a file he'd written himself—in ink only he could see.

"My wife passed away years ago," Mr. Zhou said. "My son's abroad, comes back once a year. I live downstairs, by myself. Some nights I can't sleep, so I listen to the sounds from up here. Who watches TV till what hour, who's having a fight, who got a dog—I know all of it."

She didn't ask why. The answer had already formed in her head.

"This pothos," Mr. Zhou pointed at the windowsill, "a tenant left it six years ago. When she moved out, she said, 'Mr. Zhou, keep it alive for me. I'll come back for it once I'm settled.' She never did."

She looked at the pothos. Six years. That meant at least two or three tenants before her had seen this same plant, heard the same story, watered the same leaves. Then they moved on, and the pothos stayed, waiting for the next pair of hands.

"Don't you find it..." she hesitated, "exhausting? All these years, people coming and going?"

Mr. Zhou took his hand off the doorframe, removed a key from his keyring, and held it out to her.

"Not at all," he said. "When you get to my age, you'll understand. Watching other people live their lives—that's a way of living too."

She didn't take the key. Her lease was over.

The elevator doors closed. Through the narrowing gap, she saw Mr. Zhou still standing in the doorway. He didn't go back inside right away. He leaned against the frame, the way he had for twenty-eight years, waiting—for the next key to turn in the lock, for fresh footsteps to sound on the ceiling above his head, for the pothos on the windowsill to be watered once more by hands he'd never know.

She knew the pothos wouldn't die.

Someone would always water it.